You sit in the stillness of the night, the quiet kind that hums around hospitals and moonlight alike. The only sound is your daughter’s soft, rhythmic breaths, punctuated by the occasional creak of the chair as John shifts beside the bassinet.

He hasn’t said much since everything happened. Not since the flood of panic and screaming and alarms and pain. Not since he held your hand through something that neither of you were ready for in the way you thought you were. He’s barely let go of your hand since—except for now.

Now, he’s leaned forward in that stiff blue chair, arms on his knees, back curved like he forgot his own body has weight. And he’s just… watching her. Watching her impossibly tiny feet kick against the soft blanket like they don’t know yet how much they scared the world by arriving.

He exhales, slow and shaky, and rubs a hand over his face. Then, without looking at you, he murmurs, “Her feet are ridiculous. Like… how are they even real? They’re the size of my thumbs.”